


From The Outside Looking In

by calendarpages



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, Character Death, Character Study, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:53:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calendarpages/pseuds/calendarpages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine Anderson is many things. A thinker. An observer. A failure. A lover of good espresso. This is his story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginning

Blaine Anderson took the job at the coffee shop on a whim. He’d never intended to become a barista, that just isn’t something people aspire to be, but the smell of the coffee was enchanting to him, and the intricate modes of preparation required by some of the drinks made him feel like a wizard brewing potions instead of a college drop out doling out caffeine to tired commuters. 

It wasn’t perfect, but it was safe and warm and familiar and that’s all he was looking for really. In the beginning, it didn’t require too much in the way of thinking, so he could rest his brain after years of trying to force it to absorb and regurgitate information. He’d never wanted to be a doctor anyways. Too much blood and sadness for an empathetic person like himself. But him parents had insisted, and he’d thought himself powerless to resist. It wasn’t like he’d had an alternative anyway. 

The Andersons were a proud family and no son of theirs would spend his life doing menial labor. That was what they’d told him, when he’d announced that he would be dropping out of medical school and looking to work part time to support himself. They argued that he would get bored. A bright young individual like himself couldn’t possibly stay sane working a job that required so little creativity, so little thought. Blaine wanted to explain to them that the coffee he’d been taught to craft required plenty of thought, that the perfectly brewed latte was equivalent, in his mind, to a fine work of art. They wouldn’t understand though, so he kept his mouth shut.

Eventually he secured a steady job working part time at a small, independently owned cafe in an artsy part of town. He’d avoided Starbucks, and other such chains, as his new philosophy didn’t allow for such a sterile approach to coffee. He didn’t want to simply hand people their drink and then watch them run out the door. He wanted to work somewhere quieter, more lethargic, where the patrons stayed to savor their coffee, sipping from chipped porcelain cups and telling stories with their faces.

That was something Blaine hadn’t expected of his new profession. The amount of satisfaction and joy he’d find in just watching the faces of the customers who circulated in and out of the coffee shop at all hours of the day. Being the one stationary entity in a hub of activity was invigorating, yet strangely relaxing. Blaine had never before thought himself a passive person, so he was surprised by how much he enjoyed sitting back and watching the world spin tirelessly around him. 

As an outsider looking in, making up stories for the regulars who appeared like clockwork was a fascinating way to fill up the empty space in his day. Blaine thought that maybe, if he wasn’t such an ineffective writer, he could have been a novelist. The shaping of stories had always appeared an admirable pursuit, and he respected good writers even more once he truly understood the talent and skill it took to weave such elaborate plots and sculpt such complex characters.

The characters were what intrigued him the most. People had always seemed such an oddity, a mistake of nature perhaps, with their confusing mentalities and improbable sentience. Always questioning, always looking for ways to explain their world. It boggled Blaine that such creatures as humans could have evolved alongside all the other animals of Earth and still manage to turn out so frustratingly different. Authors who could capture that, the endless intricacies of the human psyche, were the ones that Blaine thought should be revered. And now that he’d graduated past the essential wonder of creation that came with learning a new craft, he looked for other ways to pass the time. A good cup of coffee was still a thing of beauty, but Blaine supposed his parents had been right in a way; the act of brewing a perfect drink was no longer enough to sate him ever churning mind. 

So instead, he turned to the people, wiling away the hours wrapped up in their lives, in their day to day business, and the ebb and flow of their ever fluctuating temperaments. There was one girl, a teenager not yet out of high school, and every day at four o’clock precisely she stormed into the coffee shop and demanded a white chocolate mocha, no whipped cream. Blaine called her Star in his head, even though he knew the girl’s name was Rachel, because no matter how she was feeling, whether it be excited or sad or angry, the girl always felt it with such a burning passion that those around her couldn’t help but notice. 

Other patrons were much more subtle than Star, and Blaine appreciated them a great deal. To him, they were like puzzles, they required a bit more doing to figure out completely. Blaine’s favorite was a man named Kurt, who appeared every Wednesday in search of a nonfat mocha. He was a beautiful man, but his eyes held a sort of sadness that made him look much older than he really was. Blaine thought that Kurt had, perhaps, seen a great deal in his short life, or maybe he had seen too little. It occurred to Blaine that he might be a patient at the large medical research center a few blocks from the coffee shop, and that he only came into town on Wednesdays for treatment. From then after, Kurt served as a weekly reminder to Blaine as to why he could never have been a doctor. Blaine could read the pain written on his face far too well to watch him die before him eyes, knowing that his life had been in him hands.

But the stories weren’t all sad like Kurt’s. Some were rather hilarious, like the mating dance that occurred daily, right before Blaine’s eyes. It began with the appearance of a lone woman, usually in her early twenties, who Blaine almost always recognized as a coffee shop regular. These women’s orders ranged from the occasional tea to the much more popular vanilla latte, all sweet drinks, never too heavy on calories. The woman would then retire to one of the two person tables, pulling out a book and proceeding to bury her nose in it, as though completely oblivious to the vaguely attractive man who always seemed to stride in just after the woman had began to read. The men’s orders were all dark and rich, shots of espresso or steaming mugs caffe americano, as though their ability to down straight coffee was some show of masculinity. The man would then saunter over to the lone woman and slide into the seat opposite her, coughing ridiculously and shooting her what Blaine thought was a rather lecherous grin. The conversation that ensued always appeared awkward to Blaine, but apparently nether of the participants thought so because the man almost always left with the woman’s number scrawled flirtatiously across the back of his hand. More often than not, these couples would return a few weeks later, wrapped up in each other and sit at the same table where they’d met, no doubt regaling the romantic tale of their first encounter. 

These couples were saccharine sweet in Blaine’s opinion, their relationships almost always short and filled with passion, like a match that burned out too fast. Blaine preferred a slow burn, like the elderly couple who’d been coming in every Sunday afternoon for two chai teas since had Blaine started working at the coffee shop. Their names were Tina and Mike, and they looked to Blaine to be well into their eighties. Blaine’s story for them was a guilty pleasure of his, a romantic fantasy that he indulged in once a week. He imagined that they’d had the tradition of getting coffee every Sunday since they’d first started dating. Maybe they’d met at a coffee shop, or maybe coffee was what they’d first bonded over. Blaine pictured Mike as a lively young man, maybe a bit cheeky, if the way he teased his wife at eighty was any indication. He thought that maybe he’d come onto Tina from the very moment he’d set eyes on her, and she’d only agreed to go out with him because he simply wouldn’t stop asking. What followed must have been a whirlwind romance, resulting in an appropriately cheesy marriage proposal after only a few months. Mike and Tina were content with their lives in a way that suggested they’d had great prosperity. Blaine figured that they were fairly well off and lived in a charming old cottage with a little garden where Tina grew vegetables and other useful plants, because Blaine didn’t think that Tina was the type to waste her time cultivating something as frivolous as flowers. He thought that they’d had kids at one point, but that they were long gone, only visiting on holidays, maybe toting along a couple of grandkids.

Sometimes, on days when the coffee shop was quiet and Blaine was feeling pensive, he thought about Mike and Tina. He thought about what it would be like to look back on one’s life and feel as fulfilled as they did. He thought about what it would be like to find a person to share a life like that with. He thought about having him own little garden to grow vegetables in, and his own Mike to open doors and pull out chairs. He wondered if Tina would keep coming back after Mike dies, still ordering two chai teas and sitting at their regular table by the window. Blaine thought that if he were Tina, he would. 

Unlike many baristas though, Blaine knew he would never actually ask Mike and Tina to tell him their story, or call Rachel out on her loud personality, or console Kurt as he hands him his Wednesday mocha. He was a sworn observer; there only to watch, and imagine, and make coffee when necessary. Like a child in a museum- look but don’t touch. Patrons had tried to make conversation and he’d always responded politely, not delving or probing, just scratching the surface. Easily forgotten. 

Sometimes he felt like a drug addict, hooked on the heady feeling of figuring someone out; addicted to the lines of prose and the bright images accompanying them that flood his head as he imagines a life for yet another character as they pay him for their morning brew. Sometimes it felt as though he’s missing out on his own life, too busy crafting one for someone else. His parents seemed to think so too, intent on convincing him to return to medical school. Insisting that it’s not too late, that he still has a chance to use his intelligence to change the world for the better. 

Blaine thought that having the ability to change anything was a frightening prospect. He’d spent hours imagining the permanent scar left by his existence and wondering if such a thing could ever be good. To be remembered was to remain behind after death, a ghost of what you once were, made up only of your greatest triumphs and most fatal mistakes. Blaine lived for the in between moments; the everyday, the mundane. What would he be if he were reduced to only his highest highs and lowest lows? Truthfully, Blaine didn’t know.


	2. Middle

Blaine Anderson was a creature of routine. Every morning at five o’clock on the dot, Blaine pulls himself from sleep to the bright, tinny sound of his outdated clock radio. His body has grown so accustomed to the daily patterns of life that the clock has become something of a formality but Blaine enjoys the idea of it, and so it remains a part of his day. The coffee shop opens at seven on weekdays and at seven thirty on weekends so Blaine is sure to be out of his apartment by six at the latest- giving him just enough time to feed him cat Rufus (a mangy old thing that was inhabiting the apartment when he moved in) and to make himself presentable. There is an underground stop on the corner of the street where he lives that takes him within walking distance of the coffee shop, and so every morning he boards the subway and quietly observes his fellow commuters. 

Most are too tired to show any real character, but there are some, like himself, that take to the morning like fish to water. Unlike at the coffee shop, there are hardly any subway riders that Blaine sees on a regular basis, the only exception being an uncommonly tall college-age boy who seems to run on the same internal clock as Blaine himself. Every morning, without fail, he appears on the platform with his battered canvas backpack slung over one shoulder and a heavy textbook open in the crook of his arm. His appearance is overall very messy, his shaggy brown hair seeming perpetually tousled. Blaine notices that he never seems to be properly dressed, as if he somehow managed to completely avoid a mirror throughout his entire morning routine. There’s always something strange about his clothing- mismatched socks perhaps, or shirts with sleeves of different lengths. Blaine thinks him to be very interesting and looks forward to seeing him each morning, sometimes as the highlight of his day. He tends to play a little game with himself, timing how long it takes to find the imperfection in the boy’s attire, however minor it may be. Sometimes it’s laughably quick- like that time he wore jeans with one leg rolled up to the knee, but other times it takes a methodical eye to spot the slip. Blaine always exits the train at him stop feeling thoroughly entertained and ready for work. 

Today though, Blaine’s day starts out rough. To anyone else, waking up five minutes past one’s alarm could be considered a job well done, nothing to be worried about. For Blaine, on the other hand, it came as a bad omen of sorts that set him on edge; a crack in his seamlessly calm facade. The next bad omen comes in the form of an empty seat on the subway where there should be a rumpled, twenty-something year old boy balancing a textbook on his lap. Blaine shows up to work feeling like his whole world has been taken apart and rearranged in a unrecognizable jumble. As he enters the coffee shop, he breathes in the cloying scent of burnt coffee beans and sandalwood and uses the familiarity of the motion to ground himself. After all, there’s no use making a fuss over nothing. 

Just as Blaine is starting to settle down after his comparatively turbulent morning, _she_ appears in the brief lull that comes between the morning and midmorning rush. Quinn Fabray is just as beautiful as she’d been when they were in college, but Blaine distinctly remembers a happy mess of blonde curls that are curiously absent. Instead her hair is straight- almost to the point of severity, and clipped back behind her ears with sleek, black pins. She looks blank and professional, as though time has slowly chipped away at her humanity to leave behind something cold and calculating in its wake. This woman, this ghost from the past, was once Blaine’s best friend. Blaine takes in the polished exterior and the blatant apathy lurking just below the surface and thinks that she’s practically unrecognizable. 

As the woman makes her way through the coffee shop, Blaine’s mind inadvertently wanders back to his brief stint in medical school, providing him with unhelpful memories of Quinn and himself on the nights when he stuck her into his dorm, laughing into the night about everything and anything. Blaine keeps himself composed as Quinn approaches the register, her manicured nails tapping away at some sort of smartphone.

“One medium drip,” she says without looking up.

“Coming right up,” responds Blaine dryly, going through the motions of prepping a cup and waiting until-

“Blaine, Blaine Anderson? Is that you?”

Bingo.

Blaine glances up from the register and smiles him best show smile, “The one and only.”

Quinn’s face lights up and she finally puts away her cellphone, tucking it into her oversized purse and then clasping her hands together excitedly. 

“Oh darling it’s been too long!” she drawls, her painted red lips quirking up into something resembling a smile. “We simply must catch up! I won’t take no for an answer!”

Blaine nods reluctantly and calls Mercedes (a dark-skinned diva who took the barista job to help pay the bills while she pursues a music career) to take over the register. Mercedes shoots him a strange look- he never takes breaks, but for once, Blaine doesn’t notice. Quinn leads them over to a table in the corner and forces Blaine into the chair, smiling as though proud of herself when Blaine makes no move to resist. 

“So! What’ve you been up to, darling?” purrs Quinn, propping her chin atop her hands and regarding Blaine with curiosity.

“Oh-uh, well I’ve been here.”

Quinn scrunches her nose, “You’re a full-time barista?”

Blaine nods, suddenly feeling extremely self conscious. 

“But, darling, you went to med school! What could you possibly be doing in a position as-” Quinn pauses, searching for a word, “- _boring_ as this one?”

Blaine shrugs, “I like it here, it makes me happy.”

Quinn has the nerve to laugh at that, him head falling back as him shoulders shake.

“Oh Blaine Warbler, still as funny as you were when we were kids!”

With a slight grimace at the old pet-name, Blaine shakes him head fervently, “I’m not joking Quinn! Look, I get that you like being a doctor but that was never for me, you knew that.”

Quinn’s expression is bemused at best, “Honey, you must know that we never thought you’d actually give everything up. We thought you were being dramatic- quite in character too if you ask me!”

“What do you mean ‘give everything up’?” Blaine asks cautiously, curling his fingers around the seat of his chair. 

Quinn makes a vague gesture to their surroundings, “Look where we are, Blaine! You’re working in a coffee shop for goodness’ sake.”

“And what’s wrong with that? ”

“Sweetheart, you’re-what you’re doing with yourself, it doesn’t mean anything! Saving lives means something, I thought you understood that.”

“I do understand that, but Quinn, this coffee shop, it means something to me!”

Quinn shakes her head sadly, “Serving crappy coffee to the masses, that’s your idea of meaningful. Only you Blaine Warbler, only you-”

“Don’t call me that!” Blaine snaps and stands up abruptly, causing his chair to topple over and hit the ground with a crash that resounds throughout the shop. Quinn’s eyes grow wide and she snatches her bag up from where it rested against her leg. 

“Such a waste, Blaine. You could’ve been something great,” Quinn bites as she noisily collects the rest of her belongings. 

“Quinn-wait!” calls Blaine as Quinn stomps out of the shop, nearly running down a middle aged man coming through the door as she leaves. 

Blaine slumps down into a nearby chair and runs a hand roughly over his face. His parents had always been fairly passive aggressive with their disdain for his chosen career, so he’s never had it laid out so plainly before. He’d never thought about it that way- like he owed some kind of debt to society. He slogs through the rest of the day in a daze, and for once, he doesn’t remember a single one of his customers’ faces when he falls into bed that night. 

The next morning, Blaine barely makes it in time to catch him usual train- scrambling out of the house with his hair half gelled and Rufus mewling indignantly as he hurries through the door without refilling his food bowl. He arrives at the coffee shop with no time to spare, the first commuters already starting to dot the sidewalks. Just as he’s unlocking the door, he realizes with a jolt that he completely forgot to look for the boy on the subway that morning. Seeking him out has become an almost Pavlovian response to boarding him usual train, but this morning it was as if his mind had been somewhere else for the duration of the journey. As a result, Blaine is uncharacteristically distant as he bustles about the shop, preparing for the day’s customers. It’s a Wednesday, he reminds himself as he works, so Kurt would be coming in for his mocha sometime this afternoon. The promise of some form of normalcy comes as a relief and he finds himself clinging to it as he blunders through the day. 

Like a gift from the gods, Kurt appears at half past four, when the coffee shop is almost empty. Today Blaine takes time to really look at him, raking him eyes up and down his familiar form and frowning slightly. Kurt is always dressed impeccably, but Blaine notices now that his clothes have the look of being old but well kept, as if he couldn’t be bothered with buying anything new but has the means to maintain the ones he has currently owns. His face is sallow and pale but his eyes have lost their sadness. It’s replaced by a bright kind of hope or acceptance that Blaine’s never seen there before. He approaches the counter as usual, rattling off his order to Mercedes- who offered to cover an extra shift when she’d come in that afternoon and immediately sensed Blaine’s unsteadiness. Blaine preps the coffee quickly, automatically, still watching Kurt out of the corner of his eye. When he’s finished with his drink, he slides it across the counter and into his waiting hands. Kurt cups the hot beverage reverently, as though cherishing the warmth, and breathes deeply as the fragrant steam hits his face.

“Thank you,” he says softly, giving Blaine a shy smile. 

“My pleasure,” he replies honestly and then hastily averts his eyes. He doesn’t talk to the patrons often and it feels strangely liberating, especially after the week he’s had so far.  He moves to return to his post but jumps at at a tentative hand on him shoulder. 

“Wait! I mean-” Kurt seems infinitely out of his element as he fumbles over his words. “What I mean is, do you have a break soon? Because um- well, I come here a lot and I just noticed-”

“Yes,” says Blaine, interrupting his rambling. 

Kurt raises his eyebrows in question. 

“Yes, I have a break soon,” he replies smoothly and the relieved grin that overtakes Kurt’s face startles him.

“Great! That’s great.” Kurt points over to his usual table in the corner. “So I’ll just be over there.”

Blaine nods quickly and then turns away, sucking in a nervous breath. A potent mix of panic and excitement makes him work on overdrive to finish up the five or so orders that piled up while he was talking to Kurt. Mercedes is glancing curiously between himself and Kurt and Blaine can almost see the cogs turning in her head. When he calls over his shoulder to let her know that he’s taking a break, he makes a point of not looking back to see her undoubtedly shocked face. His own nerve astounds him as he picks his way through the maze of chairs and tables towards Kurt, who is facing away from him and staring pensively out the window. He slides noiselessly into the chair opposite him and clears him throat, causing his head to whip around in comic fashion. He stifles a giggle behind a cough and Kurt’s mouth quirks up on one side in an endearing half-smile.

“You scared me,” he says lamely.

Blaine nods, furrowing him eyebrows. “You wanted to talk to me about something?”

Kurt sits up straighter in his seat. “Yes!” he begins, a hand moving to rub anxiously at the back of his neck. “Well, you’ve probably noticed that I’ve been coming in here for coffee for a couple of months and well- I’m gonna make this quick because you probably have something to be doing.. but I just saw you today and you don’t seem as, _god I don’t know_ , happy as you usually are? And I’d like to help, um, if I can.”

Blaine blinks owlishly, his head running circles around what Kurt has just said. 

“That sounded a lot less creepy in my head,” he mumbles with a nervous chuckle.

“You noticed me?”

Kurt’s eyebrows raise to kiss his hairline, “Of course. You’ve been serving me for going on three months. And, well, you know that you make an impression, right?” 

“Impression?”

“Yea, you’re-um, you’re sweet. And you’re always really- I guess, proud maybe? Um, yea proud to be serving people. And that’s special. People need a little enthusiasm in their lives sometimes, if you get what I mean.” 

Blaine sits back in his chair, “I don’t do it on purpose.”

“Do what?”

“Be.. _enthusiastic_.”

Kurt seems confused, “Do you think that it’s a bad thing?”

Blaine chokes out a self deprecating laugh, “I work in a run down coffee shop and spend my time serving subpar coffee to grumpy commuters. Not much there to be proud of, is there?”

“No! I mean- yes, there’s so much to be proud of, Blaine.” It’s the first time Kurt has used his name and it catches him by surprise. “You brighten peoples’ days. Just the way you _smile_ , I don’t know if you understand it, but having a smile like yours directed at you after a bad day is- Blaine it’s life changing. It’s a gift. You’ve got a gift, and you give people a gift, every time you smile at them.”

Blaine is rendered completely speechless and when he doesn’t reply, Kurt curls in on himself, crossing his arms over his chest.  

“I really hope I didn’t freak you out, but I just owe you a lot and I didn’t know how else to thank you.” Kurt seems insecure again and Blaine mentally kicks himself for being so utterly incapable of vocalizing him gratitude. So instead he hugs him. He seems shocked at first and Blaine’s a bit shocked with himself, but they both melt into the embrace and when he pulls back, Kurt is smiling.

“Thank you,” Blaine whispers, unsure of his voice. 

“Thank _you_ ,” Kurt parrots and steps back, reluctantly reclaiming his personal space.

Something flashes in Kurt’s eyes and Blaine’s chest tightens. “What is it?” he asks. 

“I have an appointment. I’ve really got to go-” he replies, cutting himself off abruptly as if there was more he’d wanted to say, but couldn’t.

“Well, your next mocha is on the house, alright?” 

Kurt’s expression is pained but he nods, “Looking forward to it.”

The movement is jerky, but Kurt leans in with confidence, pressing a chaste kiss to Blaine’s cheek. Blaine watches as he leaves, waving when Kurt glances back at him through the window from the street. Kurt stares at him intently, his eyes traveling across the planes of his face in a concentrated way that makes Blaine blush. The possibilities hang unacknowledged in the air and for a second, Blaine has trouble breathing. He returns to his place behind the counter and finds himself picturing weeks and weeks of Wednesdays. He never sees Kurt again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you guess who the boy Blaine watches on the subway is?


	3. End

Time passes- days become weeks and weeks become months and Blaine learns what it’s like to truly miss someone. He never forgets what Kurt did for him, never forgets that breathtaking kiss, but he stops waiting for him every Wednesday after six tense months go by during which he hardly recognizes himself. He never goes looking for Kurt- instead preferring to keep his memory alive in the bright, earnest smiles he grants each and every person who passes through the coffee shop. He thinks about him often, and finds himself crafting a story for Kurt and himself like the ones he tells about his customers. 

As Blaine grows older, he grows wiser. His employment at the coffee shop stays constant, and soon the owner is retiring and signing the deed over to him. Instead of hiring a new barista to work in his place, Blaine stays behind the counter as long as possible, still as eager as he had been at the beginning of his career. Everyday he meets new people and learns new stories, filling him head with endless experiences. Only when he is too tired to stay on his feet long enough to work a part time shift does he give in and hire a couple of young, spry college students to carry on his work. He still holds the deed to the coffee shop, and he still comes in to work everyday, but more as a full time observer, just as he’d dreamed when he first began working. Sitting in him coffee shop, wizened with age and experience, Blaine thinks that maybe his life of observing has paid off. In his head, he’s been able to live hundreds of different lives, and at the end of his days, he feels fulfilled. Maybe this was how Mike and Tina had felt as they sipped their chai tea and discussed the weather? He can’t help but think that maybe Kurt could’ve been his Tina, if the world hadn’t taken him away so soon. 

But even as his body aged, him mind stayed sharp and as a result, death sneaks up on him, fast and silent in the depths of a warm summer night. As he lies in his bed, thinking -always thinking- he reflects on his life, crafting an intricate mosaic in his head of the countless faces he’d become acquainted with over his eighty years. His mind conjures up a breathtaking image of Kurt, with his expressive eyes and worn exterior. They’d exchanged so few words and yet he stands out as the only face in Blaine’s memories that he truly believes belongs to him and him alone. Staring up at the ceiling of him bedroom with vacant eyes framed with crows feet, he finally finds an answer to the question he’d asked himself so many years ago. What would he be if he were reduced to only him highest highs and lowest lows? He would be happy.

As he drifts off to sleep, he wonders absently if he’ll see Kurt soon; maybe he’ll finally be able to treat him to that free mocha that he’d promised him all those years ago. Blaine closes him eyes with a contented sigh, a smile quirking at the corners of his lips and sleeps. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, what an adventure this was to write. I've never attempted anything like this and it was interesting to craft a story of this nature, focusing primarily on Blaine and the workings of his mind. I'm aware that this Blaine is very different from the Blaine we know and love, but rest assured that the changes were intentional. I'm very sorry for what I did to Kurt and to Klaine but the angst was calling to me and I couldn't resist.  
> I love to get comments, as do most fanfiction authors. What did you think? Was Blaine's character interesting? Do you want to burn my laptop for killing off Kurt? Any feedback is much appreciated.


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